The Lionhearted
by Gospel Stonemad
Summary: Natasha is like a cat; she takes what she wants from whoever she wants OR Five times Natasha commandeered Steve's bed for her own purposes and one time she made him sleep in hers. Part of the Muscle Mass series


The Lionhearted

* * *

"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light."

Helen Keller

* * *

1.

The door to his apartment was unlocked. Again. Steve sighed and stared at the doorknob for a long moment before straightening, getting ready to face whoever had decided to sneak in this time.

For once, the kitchen was empty. Sink terrifyingly clear (that ruled out Clint and Tony, who both left their mess behind for him to clean up like the two unruly slobs they were), the dishwasher on (so, not Thor who either did the dishes by hand or didn't use them at all), and television off (Bruce accidently left it on, falling asleep on the couch before whatever he was washing finished), Steve figured it could only be one other person.

Natasha's black duffle bag was pushed underneath the coffee table, only seen because he checked the couch first in case she had fallen asleep there. It was empty, so he set his own things down on the counter; taking off his jacket, putting his wallet away, and set down the paper bag filled with newly bought paints so he could deal with them in the morning. The guest room's door was closed and he ran one hand through his hair, wondering if he should open it and check on her... But it was late and he didn't want to wake her up just for his own peace of mind.

Already planning on what to make for breakfast in the morning, Steve opened his door, shut it gently behind him, and pulled his shirt over his head. He was just about to toss it into the laundry bin when he saw the lump on the bed, the shine of his shield, and hair the colour of blood spread across his pillows. For a second he almost panicked—the dim lighting and the angle making it look as if she was bleeding before he calmed down.

Natasha had curled up around vibranium, legs up to her chest, one hand splayed across the painted, silver star in the middle. Only clothed in a black tube top and matching shorts, she looked small on his bed, dwarfed by the king-sized mattress, the large pillows, and the space all around her.

Shedding his jeans, Steve stepped into the bathroom, grabbing a pair of lounge pants on the way. He kept the door open, keeping an eye on her as he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and pulled the pants on.

The spy didn't stir. Not when he turned the sink off, not when he opened the door further and light spilled across her face, and not when he walked over.

Steve hovered by the side of his bed, looking over his shield before, _carefully_, working his fingers under the edges. He slid it slowly out from under her hand, watching the redhead's face for any sign of—

He grunted when Natasha's nails dug into his wrists, her blue-green eyes narrowed and cold, flashing like the shine that only came off knives in the dark. Steve stilled, fighting the urge not to wince or make any sudden movements. "Hey," he said softly, smiling in that way that made both his face and eyes look warm—ouch, _ouch_, he thought her nails punctured his skin for a minute. "That's not the greatest teddy bear you have, there."

She stared at him, never blinking, before slowly loosening her grip. The soldier took the shield off the bed (still slowly, he wasn't exactly sure what mindset she was in now—though it didn't look too good if she was in his bed and holding onto his shield), placed it so it was leaning up against the nightstand, and laid down across the covers. Steve was on his back, hands crossed carefully on his stomach as Natasha shuffled a bit beside him, moving about under the sheets as if trying to decide whether to get comfortable or to just leave.

His eyes were drifting closed when her felt her palms along his arms, running over his biceps, then shoulder, crossing over his chest... and went down his stomach. Her shoulder brushed him first, then her waist, breasts, and, finally, her head pressed between the crevice of his collarbone and neck, body curled up into him. Each warm breath tickled his Adam's apple, her long legs coiling around one of his as if she was a large snake, ready to constrict his last breath out of him.

Smiling, though, Steve turned into her and wrapped one arm around her body to pull her closer.

He wasn't as strong as the shield, but he was far more comfortable. And warm. They fell asleep like that; curled together and slumbering softly until the sun rose and Steve felt the redhead pulling away from him.

Drowsy in the morning light, he pulled her closer, pressing his nose into crimson locks. They smelled of gunpowder, cinnamon, and, underneath that, cherry vanilla. For a moment, Natasha tensed up, twisting like a cobra ready to strike—and the sound of birds singing came through the window, the echo of cars and laughter. The spy relaxed into his hold and curled her fingers into his undershirt.

"Steve," she murmured. "I have to get up."

The soldier hummed in agreement, grinning against her neck. But he didn't let her go.

"_Steve_."

"_Natasha,_" he answered back in that same tone of voice and the redhead just groaned—yet there was a smile on her lips; the super soldier felt the soft brush of air from a laugh almost concealed. "I'm making you breakfast. You can stay in the bed for a little bit longer."

For a second, Natasha paused and braced her palms against his chest, leaning away so that she could look down at him. "What are you making?"

"If you don't stay you won't find out."

Grumbling, she sunk back down and curled up into his chest again. "You're no fun."

The soldier chuckled and ran one hand through her hair, brushing it back from her shoulders. She wouldn't talk about it, he knew—the reason as to why she had curled up on his bed, the reason as to why she was in his apartment. But he could do this for her.

Just be here.

(And make a cherry breakfast crumble with vanilla yogurt on the side.)

* * *

2.

Rainy evenings were usually spent with the afghan thrown over Steve's shoulders as he laid out on the couch, watching some television show or a movie. The thunder rumbled after a bright flash lit up the underside of his curtains, but the soldier just snuggled into the cushions as the storm raged on. A mug of tea sat on his coffee table, steam rising up towards the ceiling while it cooled just enough for him to drink it without scalding his throat.

The knock at his door was almost covered up by the rumble of thunder and the soldier sighed, staring longingly at the tea and his blanket before he paused the television and unwound himself from his cocoon. More knocks came, insistent and loud.

"Yes, yes," he called, "I'm comin—" Steve opened the door and stared down at the woman on his doorstep. Red hair turned a light brown by water, dripping puddles onto his doormat, oceanic eyes staring up at him, wide like a newborn deer.

Natasha didn't say anything, her body shivering as water ran down her bare, pale skin, the soles of her shoes squishing as she shifted back and forth.

He really didn't mean to.

He _really, _really didn't mean to, he _swears_. Swears on his _mother's_ grave.

Steve snorted, covering his mouth with one hand. "Tasha," he tried and snickered as she tilted her head up and glared, trying to look intimidating (it was ruined by the fact that her makeup was smeared so she looked like a mangy raccoon). The soldier couldn't hold in his laughter then. "You look like a half-drowned kitten!"

"S-say that again!" She shivered and, _God_, it just made her look even more like a small, half-drowned kitten trying to puff up in size.

"You look like a kitten," Steve grinned and gently pulled her into his apartment. "Come on, let's get you dry."

The redhead huffed and stomped along beside him, following him to his bedroom. "I don't look like a kitten," she huffed.

"Uh-huh."

"I _don't_."

He smiled and pulled out some sweats and a t-shirt for her to borrow. "Sure thing, Tasha."

The door slammed in his face and the soldier laughed over the sound of the shower starting. He headed back to his kitchen and pulled out a pot, preparing the ingredients for a tomato soup along the counter. It was simmering when he got out a pan and started on making the empty plate on the counter become a tower of grilled cheese and ham sandwiches.

Natasha emerged with his pants hanging low on her hips, t-shirt almost dwarfing her, and a light green towel wrapped around her head. A few strands of her crimson hair were falling out, curling up against the back of her neck and over her shoulders.

She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and held it out to him with both hands, feet spread apart, and the ceramic at eye level and he was suddenly reminded of a young, petulant child demanding food. Smiling, Steve took it from her and filled it with soup before handing it back so she could scuttle towards the couch, grabbing the plate of sandwiches, wrap herself up in the afghan, and enjoy both her dinner and some tea.

His tea.

Oh, well.

Sitting down next to her, he pulled on the blanket, nudging her about until they were both huddled under the fabric and he started the television up again while lightning lit up the curtains and thunder shook the floor. The spy ate half the sandwiches, dipping them into her soup and sipped daintily at the tea until it was gone.

And, in the middle of a fight scene, Natasha sneezed.

It was a little puff, high pitched, and Steve blinked and turned to stare at her, unsure if it was a hiccup or... _something_ else. "Bless you?"

The redhead glared up at him out of the corner of her eye and turned back towards the screen. He, taking the hint, returned his attention back to the movie.

She sneezed again.

"Bless you." There was a slight tint of amusement in Steve's tone he couldn't _quite_ hide, so he didn't (even though she might rip out his spine later).

Natasha pulled the blanket over her head and groaned loud enough to make him smile. She sniffled as the movie continued and he hid his lips behind his hand until the credits rolled. The music played softly as the soldier debated upon taking the dishes back to the sink then or just waiting until morning when his attention focused on the moving redhead next to him. Standing up, blanket dragging off Steve's lap, the redhead wrapped the afghan around her body and stalked towards the bedrooms.

The effect was ruined when she had to pause, mid-step, in order to sneeze.

Turning the television off, Steve stood up to follow her—as she walked straight into his room. "Natasha, _Natasha—_" He ran after her and watched as she threw the blanket off her shoulders so it landed in a heap on the floorboards and crawled under his covers, glaring out from above the green and blue duvet as she snuggled in deeper. Her reddened nose was covered by the fabric so that just her pink-rimmed glare and crimson hair could be seen. "That's my bed." Steve added on weakly.

The look in Natasha's eyes _dared_ him to try and remove her. Sighing, the captain threw his hands up and shed his sweatshirt, lifted up the covers on the other side, and slid in.

"Goodnight."

She grumbled something and turned her back to him when he turned off the light. They both settled down to sleep with the rain pattering the windows and the thunder rumbling off to bother someone else.

In the morning, Steve woke to hair tickling his nose, a slim figure pressed against his side, and the sun.

* * *

3.

Something on Natasha's face made Steve pull her aside after the battle. They walked and walked, side by side, neither of their steps faltering. Both of them led, yet didn't at the same time, knowing where to go, what was closest, what was _safe_.

The soldier unlocked the door to his apartment and held it open for her. Their phones were buzzing, but they tossed them on the couch, Steve gently guiding the spy towards his bedroom and making her sit down on the duvet in her scorched, torn suit.

"_Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers—_" they both pulled the Bluetooths out of their ears at the same time while Steve fished through the bathroom, pulling out his first aid kit and a bottle of aloe out from under the sink. His helmet was removed and set down next to the redhead, but the captain kept the rest of his uniform on.

"He's going to be mad," Natasha murmured as he kneeled in front of her.

The soldier gave her a tight lipped smile, "Of course." When the spy didn't make any motion to removing her suit, Steve did it himself, careful with the zipper down her front in case there were injuries across her abdomen. The problem, however, was her arms and legs. "I think I have to cut it off you," he said softly and glanced up.

Shoulders tensing, she stared down at him, eyes darkening. Then she gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod and he gave her a gentle smile, pulling out the knife from the holster in his boot. Pointing the blade upwards and away from the skin, he slid it upwards along the barely noticeable seam. It parted for him like butter under a hot knife.

"What's that made of?" She asked, hands landing on his shoulders and tightening just a bit so her nails dug into the Kevlar.

"Adamantium," Steve murmured, eyes focused on the task, suddenly grateful for all those stencils he had made with an x-acto knife when he was younger—it had taught his hand to be steady, perfect, and swift. "Tony made it for me after he saw that I knew how to fight with a knife."

The grin on Natasha's face was rueful—and maybe just a bit closed off. Pain. The only sign she would give. "You were in the army."

"Yeah, you know? People keep forgetting that fact." He finished one leg and started on the other. "Let me know if I'm hurting you."

"You're not."

"Uh huh." He was careful to only touch the leather and hold it before it pulled against her skin and her fingers relaxed on his shoulders. Steve got to her waist and cut towards the zipper. His knife clinked against the metal before the soldier climbed up onto the bed, sitting behind Natasha and started on the arms. "I'm very glad you are wearing a bra."

Her head turned so their eyes met. "Do you often think of the underwear under my suit?"

"Only when I'm cutting it off," the captain gave her his most charming smile before going back to slicing away her uniform. She hissed when he put his hand against her wrist to hold her arm out and Steve murmured an apology as he cut the last inch. The leather was already starting to peel off her, but he stopped Natasha from pulling it down her other arm.

"It's not hurt," the redhead murmured and he just hummed in agreement, revealing the dark bruises on her bicep that trailed all the way down to her wrist. "Not hurt as _badly_."

"Of course."

The spy levelled a dark look on him. "You're not listening to anything I'm saying."

"Mmm hmmm."

Natasha rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as he pulled the last of the suit away from her back and off of her. "Are you going to let me borrow some clothes?" She deadpanned as he moved back in front of her. "Or just keep me like this?"

Captain America looked her over thoughtfully. "The clothes," he said with a determined nod and she smacked him on the arm as he laughed and sat down at her feet, pulling her left foot to him. "I'm going to treat the burns first and then the cuts, alright?"

"Whatever makes you—_hnck_." The redhead lurched forward, hands landing on the top of his hair as the aloe was spread across her calf by gentle fingers. It was cooling, soothing, and stung just a bit when it went over scrapes. "Steve—"

"I know," his eyes turned up to look at her and he moved closer so she could rest her hands comfortable on his shoulders again. "Just hang in there, alright?"

Natasha closed her eyes, trying not to focus on the hands working up her leg, finger tops massaging uninjured skin and muscle while his palms spread the cool gel. "I am."

His lips brushed the side of her knee before his hands continued up, smoothing over the skin that looked like it had just gotten sunburned before moving on to the other leg. "I'm going to have to stitch that," the captain murmured, carefully avoiding the long gash. "And that I can use the analgesia for."

"Why aren't you using it _now_?" She gritted her teeth and ducked her head with his fingers trailed over a group of blisters.

"I need to make sure you can still feel it," Steve murmured and leaned back, looking over his work. "Hand."

The redhead glared at him as he motioned for her to give him her wrist.

"_Hand_, Natasha."

Thrusting it into his face, the redhead gave a petulant huff. Smiling, the soldier spread a generous amount of aloe across her skin, avoiding the cuts on her knuckles. "That's a good girl."

"If you were any other person—"

"You'd kill me, yes. I know." Steve sighed as if exasperated and wiped his hands on his pants. "Now you get the analgesia." He dug through the first aid kit and pulled out a filled syringe wrapped in plastic. Humming, he held it up so she could read the contents and waited patiently until she nodded her consent. Without warning, he stuck it into her thigh and Natasha snarled, smacking him across the face in reflex.

"_Jesus_—"

He laughed.

_Laughed_.

The super soldier laughed (_even more_) and grinned up at her. He patted her knee and set the needle to the side to fish out the stitching equipment, little snorts of amusement escaping.

"You're a bully," she grumbled, swaying slightly before shaking her head and glaring down at him.

"That's me," Steve lifted her leg back up, set her heel on his thigh, and got to work. "Bullying my friends into taking care of themselves."

Natasha sighed, "Mother bear."

"Yep," he cut off the thread and started wrapping bandages around her legs, humming to himself as she balanced against him. "And what have we learned today about jumping in front of explosions?"

"That I hate you."

Steve grinned and finished up her legs and arm, rubbed some of the bruise cream along the darkest splotches of her skin, and then handed her a shirt and a pair of boxers. "Get dressed."

The redhead stared at the fabric as if it was a monster and he sighed, gently guiding her limbs through holes. The suit was still under her butt, so the soldier gently pulled Natasha to her feet so he could clean everything off the bed, help her into a pair of boxers, and pull the covers back. "In," he ordered, hands braced against her shoulder blades so she wouldn't topple forward or backwards.

Natasha flopped onto the mattress and the captain rearranged her limbs before pulling the covers over her. "Where you going?" she slurred when he got up.

He laughed. "_I _still have to change!" Steve ran one hand through her hair, carefully untangling the small knots. "Go to sleep, Tasha. Heal."

"Mmm hmmm," turning onto her side, the spy gripped one of his pillows and pulled it to her chest. "_Mama bear_," she grumbled and he laughed all the way to the bathroom.

* * *

4.

The power died at nine o'clock, taking the television with it. For a long, tense moment, the Avengers sat in silence. Tony pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face as Bruce and Steve fetched some candles from the bathroom and lined them up on the tables and shelves. Natasha pulled back the curtains that were blocking the glow of the streetlamps.

"I don't think we're going anywhere," she murmured.

Clint looked over her shoulder and winced. "That's a lot of snow."

It was piling higher and higher against the apartment complexes, turning cars into makeshift snowmen, sticking to the faces of street signs and windows. And the snow was still coming down in thick, wet flurries that blocked out either end of the street in a great white fog.

Steve let Bruce and Thor light up the candles with some matches and dug through the hall closet for a battery operated space heater (Tony had made fun of him for it but _who's laughing now_?!). Blankets were disbursed and, gradually, the night grew long and each of the Avengers drifted off, curled up around the heat like a group of slumbering cows.

Steve pulled the curtains back to check on the storm outside. The cold didn't bother him much anymore—but neither did the heat. A result of the seventy years of frostbite, the medical staff at SHIELD figured (it was a completely normal reaction, and the serum couldn't do _everything_). They said it wasn't unusual and that he was lucky that the damage wasn't more severe.

The soldier let the curtains slide back in place, padding softly around the group piled on the floor. and headed back to his room.

Not feeling either temperature was dangerous, though, no matter how many people looked envious when he didn't shiver in the cold or pant in the heat. Dehydration could sneak back up on him again. Hypothermia, hyperthermia. They were both risk factors when he couldn't tell if or when he was over heating or getting too cold. Shedding his shirt and pants, Steve crawled under his covers, pulling the thick duvet over his shoulders, and settled down to sleep. He drifted off, mind absently wandering through recipes for breakfast foods and was off into dreams before he even started on listing the omelette ingredients in his fridge.

Three hours later Steve woke up to the padding of soft footsteps and the covers being pulled back enough so someone could slide in. He turned slowly, facing the other side of the bed and sighed as Natasha huddled under his sheets. "There's a heater out there."

"Tony's hogging it," she grumbled and curled up to him.

"This is _my_ bed," Steve whined, sounding like a child who's favourite toy was taken away.

The assassin snorted. "Sure," she said and he groaned, but didn't bother kicking her out. The snow kept falling, and he was drifting back to sleep again when she spoke. "God, you're like a furnace." But Natasha wasn't complaining, she was scooting closer. "Do you remember Johnny?"

"Hmm?"

"Johnny Storm. The Human Torch."

Steve opened one eye to glare at her in the dark. He wanted some sleep, damn it. "What about him?"

"I'm fairly sure you two are related. He's a furnace, you're a furnace—"

The mental picture of himself lighting up in flames just seemed a bit... _horrifying_, really. "He lights himself on _fire_." The soldier pointed out as if _that_ statement was the end of all statements and the clincher for this argument (if it even was an argument).

Natasha kept going, though. Talking thoughtfully and he could see the vague outline of her knuckles underneath her chin. "I sat next to him at a wedding, once. Outdoor wedding. Summer. It was so hot."

Steve gritted his teeth. "_Natasha_."

"I don't think he can ever really turn it off," she mused to herself and he groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. "I think his core is just blazing _all_ the _time_."

It took him a few seconds to realize that she was waiting for a response. "Is there a point to this?"

"You sure you're not related?"

"_Yes_."

The assassin breathed out a quiet, "_Hmmm_..."

Steve thought that was the end of it and snuggled deeper into his pillow, breathing slowly, Natasha's hair brushing against his chin. He would sleep until noon. The others can get their own damn breakfast.

"You know," she said after twenty minutes where the only other sounds were the snoring in the other room and the creaking of the mattress. "He can't really feel temperature like you either."

"Oh my _God_, Natasha," the soldier grounded out, reaching up for the pillows braced against the headboard and shoved one over her mouth. "Shut _up_."

Her laugh could be heard through the material and he flopped back down on the mattress wondering, not for the first time, how he managed to get into this mess.

5.

Bricks and glass shot across the street before the Avengers fully realized what was going on. Fire licked at the sky, thick, black smoke rose from the ruins of what had once been a store front. Steve only managed to jump in front of a teenager, shield thrust out in front of him, before the glass was slicing through the air like thrown knives thirsting for flesh. Debris clunked against the shield like a heavy, bitter rainstorm before it stopped and the soldier could straighten and guide the kid away from the destruction.

Thor had already gathered rainclouds, the downpour swift and sudden, focused on the fire as if to smother it all. The Hulk and Tony were removing large chunks of ruin from the asphalt and helping the people get farther from the destruction. Clint was trying to keep people calm, pushing them back with his body and bow—a one man blockade. Natasha...

Steve looked around and saw her. An angel of death against fire and smoke; her hair blackened with ash and fading back into crimson as if it was embers in a fireplace burning down. She was beautiful.

She was still.

Still and staring at the burning building with her blue-green eyes wide and glistening, hands frozen by her side. Steve frowned and turned to look at Clint. The archer was pushing civilians back, matching every jibe, every angry retort with the sass that often came with his barely controlled (okay, _not_ controlled) mouth. He wasn't paying attention to the redhead and he didn't need immediate help.

Steve jogged to Natasha, ignoring the sirens in the distance, the man they had been fighting laying prone on the ground, knocked out by a flying brick with his forehead dripping blood down his brow. The soldier reached out, "Tasha?" he tried, not brushing her shoulder yet, in case she wasn't fully with them.

Her eyes turned up to him. "Steve," she started and stopped, her mouth opening and closing, words frozen in her throat, in her _lungs_. "There were people—"

The battle had been something that they had all gone out just to see the man's face slacken when the full fury of the Avengers had stood on the other end of the street. Tony had promised the fastest person to knock him out a free meal and car—something Clint had been excited about until Steve gave himself, the archer, and the assassin civilian duty. Tony, the Hulk, and Thor could fight it out amongst themselves, the captain figured. He'd get Clint that free meal (God, the guy stole food out of his house _anyway_).

There had been as flash of red on the other side of the street, Natasha herding people through an open door—

"God," Steve breathed and looked over at the building. The building she had stood in front of, guiding people inside, where they would be _safe_.

She was already turning her head away, shoulders squared, tense, frozen. The soldier had seen that before; not too long ago on the fields of Germany. Guilt. Regret. He grabbed her by the shoulders (damn the consequences—even if she broke all his ribs and both his hands) and pulled her to his chest.

Natasha froze against him, cheek against the silver star on his chest. "Steve—"

"It's not your fault," he told her and she was shaking her head ever so slightly against his body. "You are not at fault here, Natasha. You _did not do this_."

"You can't know that," she murmured. "You can't—"

The soldier shook his head and kept her eyes away from Tony and the Hulk pulling out partially scorched bodies. "You didn't pull that trigger," Steve said, "you didn't cause that explosion."

"I should have _known_—"

"Known what?" His hands brushed across her shoulders, her back, keeping her against him because this... this he'd gone through before. Survivor's guilt. He had it, hell, he was still going through it. "There wasn't a bomb in the building, Natasha. Tony scanned the area."

"No one could know that." The redhead took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Controlling her emotions, controlling everything. "What if it was my fault? What If I set it off—" She was shaking, vibrating almost and he gritted his teeth. "You don't know me—"

Steve met Clint's eyes when he looked over her and the archer jerked his head, motioning for them to go, they had everything under control. "I do," he said, voice never losing its strength even as he led her away from the death. From the fire. "You are Natasha Romanoff. Spy, killer, assassin, agent." She curled up slightly—or tried to, because the captain kept a firm hold, keeping her open to hear his words. "But, most of all, you are an _Avenger_."

"I've killed people."

The soldier laughed at that. "So have I," he led her through alleys, through back ways, hiding from prying eyes and peeking cameras, trekking through the dirt and the puddles, the trash and the unwanted. "So has Clint and Tony and Bruce. So has Thor. Every single one of use has killed someone."

She shivered, her arms wrapping around her body as if it could shield her from invisible bullets and knives. "I have red on my ledger, Steve," the redhead murmured. "And it's _never_ going to be wiped clean."

"You don't need to have it wiped clean," he turned to face forward, stopping them both so he could lean against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. "Natasha, don't you get it? Don't you _see?_"

But the assassin, the spy, the _Avenger,_ looked up at him from under her eyelashes, curling in on herself like her training would never allow. This was Natalia, this was the little girl from Russia, born in the summer and raised to be winter. She didn't understand, she couldn't see, and Steve's hands itched to draw it out for her, draw her how he saw her, how the _team_ saw her.

"Oh, _nathair fola_..." Steve murmured and reached out, cupping her jaw in his hands, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. She won't cry. She wouldn't allow herself to cry, but that was alright. Natasha wouldn't let go in front of him, not like that. "Your ledger is not _yours_, you are the Black Widow. You were trained to take orders, you were remade to become an object, a weapon," he tilted her head up so their eyes could meet, so she could search his face for truth... and find it. "SHIELD is responsible for your ledger. HYDRA, the KGB—every person, every being that has given you orders that you had to obey, they are the ones whose hands are dripping with blood. Not you," the accent burned on his tongue. Dublin in origin, brought to the United States on a boat, but he didn't hide it, not from her, not now. "_Never_ you."

Natasha stared up at him, eyes flickering from side to side, looking for anything betraying him. But there was nothing _to_ betray him. Nothing—because what he spoke he believed in, just like he believed in her. Her hands circled his wrists, not squeezing, just holding.

"You're _free_," he told her, whispering it because the world didn't deserve to know this secret, this undisclosed information hidden in the darkest room at the highest height, left to rot and dust. It was hers and hers alone. The truth of the universe, the secret of a world driven to fear and fighting with nails and lies. "Natasha, you are _free_."

And Natasha Romanoff—no. _Natalia Romanova_—threw her arms around Captain Steven Rogers, buried her face into his shoulder, and didn't cry. She didn't cry, but she shook. She dug her nails into the skin of his neck and pressed up against him in a way that was so, _so_ familiar to the soldier that he wrapped his arms around her waist and let his cheek brush against her hair. She smelt of ash, of dust, of beauty and venom, but, underneath it all, there was the cherry vanilla—the smell of _summer_.

He held her until she stopped shaking, until her knees could hold her again.

"I'm tired," Natasha murmured, her voice muffled by leather and spandex and Kevlar.

"Okay," Steve said, and led her through the alleyways, down paths barely large enough for the two of them to walk side by side. That was alright, though, because he let the redhead use him as a crutch, a walking stick, a _friend_. They walked a long time, step by step, never breaking pace until they were at the backdoor of the red-bricked apartment building.

She led him up the steps, opened his door, stripped out of her costume, and walked straight into his bedroom. Steve only grinned, setting himself up in the kitchen and starting on all the foods featuring cherries as he could. When the white chocolate cherry banana bread was put into the oven, the soldier turned towards the bedroom door and saw it still closed. His shower had stopped a while ago and, after washing his hands in the sink, he went over and knocked.

"Natasha?" There was no answer, so he opened it and grinned.

She was curled up on his bed, ignoring the covers, and arms wrapped around one of his pillows like it was a stuffed bear. For a moment, Steve leaned against the door frame, watching her sleep before entering, pulling a thin blanket from his closet, and threw it over her. "Sleep well, _nathair fola_," He murmured, tucking the fabric along her sides. "_Bealtaine do aisling a bheith bheannaigh_."

* * *

+1

"It's not like I don't understand it," Steve and Natasha both stepped onto the subway train, him reaching out for a pole to keep standing as she sat down. "But—okay, I _don't_ understand it."

The spy snickered behind a hand. "People love to hate things. I guess it makes them feel better, looking down on others."

For a moment, he stared. Then Steve frowned, scrunched up his nose, and grimaced. "Hatred only breeds more hatred," he said in the same way that those old DARE commercials said 'drugs are bad for you'.

"Maybe people just want more drama in their life."

"That sounds _exhausting_."

Natasha laughed. "Only because you have too _much_ drama in your life."

The soldier groaned and rested his forehead against the pole he was holding onto. "Stark came up to me yesterday, wanted to make renovations to my suit."

"What'd you tell him?"

"_Hell no_," Steve sighed, but smiled tiredly at her. "It's not that I'm not grateful that he's trying to make it better—because I _am_—but I don't _need_ all the technology that everyone else has. I won't use it, so it doesn't need to be there."

She grinned back at him. How could she not? "I don't use it either," the redhead pointed out, "but it's still a comfort to know it's there."

"_Comfort to know it's there_," he mocked, voice high and condescending even as she kicked him in the shin. Steve laughed and dodged the rest of her kicks, almost knocking into another man who was staring at Natasha—correction; her _chest_—and went back around to knock their shoulders together. The man started as if coming out of a trance, jerking up like someone stuck car battery clips to his toes. Snickering, the soldier watched him flush and turn away before looking back at the spy.

The redhead had crossed her arms over her chest, a single eyebrow raised, and one leg crossed over the other.

"What?" Steve grinned and shrugged as the train slowed to a stop. "It was an accident!"

"You're a horrible liar," standing up, Natasha held out one arm so he could loop his in hers. "There's this wonderful Italian place that can deliver. I have the menu underneath my sink."

Steve squirmed a bit as they headed up the stairs and she turned to glance up at him. "Sorry," the soldier grinned. "I've never been to your apartment before."

"I know," she deadpanned and pulled him down the street. "I'd be quite worried if you had."

"Snuck in like you?"

"Very out of character."

Steve paused, frowning. "Thank you?"

The redhead laughed and pulled him along, down the darkened street as the sun disappeared behind buildings. "You aren't allergic to cats, are you?"

"Why?" His eyes widened. "Are you a crazy cat lady?"

Natasha slapped his arm. "No! There's just a stray who likes to hang out on my balcony."

He gave her a knowing look. "Uh huh. Has he adopted you?"

"Who?"

"The cat!"

She groaned. "I keep telling it to get lost, but—"

Something stiff rubbed against Steve's leg and he stopped on the sidewalk and looked down at the thin, black cat currently pressing itself up to his trousers. There would be hair left behind, little tick marks on tan, but the soldier kneeled down, holding out his hand so the animal could sniff at his fingers. "Is this him?"

The sigh that was released from Natasha's lips sounded somehow exhausted and amused at the same time. "Yes," she said. "His name is Liho."

"Liho," Steve murmured and brushed his fingers down the cat's spine, grinning as gold eyes closed and the thin back arched in pleasure. "He's handsome."

"He's a pest."

Laughing, the soldier scratched behind black ears, rubbed his fingers over felted tips. "Some might say the same of you," Steve gave her a charming smile and chuckled when she swatted at him. Giving Liho one last scratch, he stood up. "So, you mentioned Italian?"

Natasha led him up the stairs to the apartment building, up to the final floor, and stood outside her door for moment, staring at the wood before, finally, unlocking it and pushing inside.

The first thing Steve noticed was the lack of pictures. No frames on the walls, on tables, in the kitchen or her small dining area. He turned, admiring the cream paint, the light woods. Nothing screamed _Natasha_ at him which, she was a spy, so it was probably supposed to be like that. A clenching rose in his stomach, crawling up to his throat and he was glad that she had someplace she could be herself, even if it wasn't her home. Even if it was his.

He could share.

Liho followed them in and laid down in a chair, spreading out his skinny body until he had managed to take up an entire seat. Steve stared. The cat stared back.

"Are you going to tell me what you want or should I leave and let you and Liho have your moment?" Natasha drawled and Steve's head snapped up, his eyes wide.

"Uh, meat lasagne?"

She shrugged and placed the phone back up to her ear, still grinning at him and the cat. Steve ran his fingers over the black fur until the small creature was purring loud enough (and hard enough) that it vibrated his palm. Natasha sat down next to him on the floor, legs curling up so her thighs were pressed against her chest and her chin rested upon her knees. "You two seem to be getting along."

"We couldn't afford a pet," Steve smiled softly as Liho batted at his fingers. "But there were plenty of strays around—both cats and dogs." Nails caught his skin but the soldier only laughed. "No one in the complex could spare food, but we always put out some clean, cold water on the hot days."

"Regular animal man."

Steve gently picked Liho up and set the purring cat down on his lap. "I guess... none of us wanted to see them suffer the way we were, but there wasn't much we could do about it, either."

Wadding up some napkins, Natasha tossed them down the hall and they both watched a long, black blur give chase. They sat there on the floor until the doorbell rang and ate their food in silence, Liho creating the mood by yowling, mewling, and purring at their feet.

"I should probably head back soon," Steve said, leaning back in his chair and grinning as the cat sat on his lap, forepaws braced against his chest, their noses just about touching.

"_Or_ you could stay," Natasha threw away the trash, not looking at him.

The soldier watched her for any signs of discomfort—tensing of her shoulders, a frown, some type of twitch (who was he kidding, though? This was _Natasha_). "If that's alright with you."

"I _wouldn't_ have asked—" She started, whirling on him, eyes flashing.

Steve held up his hands. "Okay! Alright, just making sure."

"Mm hmm," she grabbed a rag and wiped down the table. "Go get the bed ready—I already have a lot of your clothes here."

"Get the—wait." He froze, picking Liho up so he wouldn't be dislodged when Steve stood up. "_My_ clothes?"

Sighing, the redhead looked up at him. "Really? Out of everything I just said, _that's_ what you're going to focus on?"

Steve put his hands up—one still holding and wiggling cat. "Okay, okay, you're right. Stupid question."

"Damn right it was a stupid question..." she murmured to herself as he headed down the hallway towards the only door left. Her bedroom was just like the rest of the apartment; creamy, smooth, with no personal or familial items anywhere. Half her closet was filled with his clothes and he changed, putting Liho on the floor in case the cat wasn't allowed on the bed.

The bed was soft—almost too soft, _God_ he felt like he was on a marshmallow—until Natasha held up a remote control and the fabric stiffened up beneath him, pushing him up. "That is the _coolest_—where can I get one of these?" Steve ran his hands over the mattress as Natasha shed off her socks and sprawled across her side.

"They're called a Tempur-Pedic mattress."

"I want one."

"Hmmm?"

Steve flattened himself against the entire thing, face in the pillow. "I want one."

Natasha blinked and looked down at Liho. The cat meowed back up at her and she shrugged. "Fine. Now scoot over." The redhead pushed at the captain's side. "This bed isn't as big as yours."

They laid there in silence, the sound of the city drifting around them. "I don't like your apartment." Steve grumbled in that way that most tired people who still had something to say spoke. "You should move in with me."

"Can I bring the cat?"

"Sure, you can bring the cat."

Liho settled himself on the window sill, turned in a circle a few times, and settled down, chin resting on his paws, and drifted off to sleep with the sound of his sleeping humans as a lullaby.

* * *

**Irish Gaelic:**

_Nathair fola_: Blood Snake

_Bealtaine do aisling a bheith bheannaigh_: May your dreams be blessed.

There is a lot of weight behind these two sayings so I'll try to keep this as brief as possible!

Nathair fola: _Blood snake, Snake Blood_. It was only until Christianity first came about on the British Isles that snakes got a bad name. We all know the story of the garden, I don't need to repeat it, but in Celtic culture the snake represented wisdom, healing, regeneration, reincarnation, and great feminine power (yeah, it turned into a phallic symbol at some point but, whatever, not here to talk about that). It was given this reputation by the fact that a snake sheds its old skin to become new. The blood snake is a warrior woman who has come back scarred, but not broken. Any warrior woman who came back from war victorious was a Blood Snake—a symbol of death, healing, rebirth, and strength.

There's a legend from my clan about a woman given the title because she survived a particularly gruelling childbirth. I thought it fit Natasha well.

(FUN FACT TIME: Medusa was originally a goddess and her hair, made of snakes, was originally a sign of her immortality. Only when the dominant power shifted from maternal to paternal did she become an object of dread—the Gorgon.)

Bealtaine do aisling a bheith bheannaigh: I didn't really know what this meant until my mother explained it to me in full detail. Unlike English, Gaelic is a very metaphorical language. One word can have multiple meanings and, depending upon the context, the very story in which someone is telling can have various endings. This saying isn't about dreams. Not the sleeping kind (because my Grandmother always said it when she said goodbye). This saying means that may the road ahead of you be blessed, may you come out unafraid, my you be _happy_ when you finish. May your dreams be blessed is only the literal meaning, but, in saying this, Steve is saying that he hopes that she'll find peace one day.

Hope you all enjoyed reading!

(God, my work schedule is eating me alive and I'll try to get on that second Sacrifice chapter tonight.)

Hope you enjoyed, drop a review, and I'll see you next time!

Gospel


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